


Making It Right

by MellytheHun



Series: Tumblr Sterek Prompts [20]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Angst, Blood and Injury, Childhood Friends, Class Differences, Class Issues, Confessions, Escape, Evil Sheriff Stilinski, First Kiss, Friendship, Love Confessions, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Problematic Themes, Redemption, Slave Derek Hale, Star-crossed, Tumblr Prompt, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 14:42:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19111783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellytheHun/pseuds/MellytheHun
Summary: auto-correctyourself asked: #3 for sterek3. “Please, don’t leave.”Also written for Sterek Week ‘15Day 2: Historical Era or Alt Universe





	Making It Right

Derek’s body goes rigid, the moonlight draping over every silky curve of his form, his loose pants looking too thin for how cold the night is.

He has a rucksack draped over his broad shoulder, the tattoo on his bare back, and every dimple, and crevasse his taut muscles create are exaggerated by the shadows from the overhanging weeping willow.

He has only just reached the stone wall keeping him from the Death Zone.

His bare feet look larger, and paler than usual against the dark, misty grass.

“…what did you say?” Derek asks softly.

Stiles, in his years with Derek as his slave, has grown used to Derek’s tones of voice.

Derek is a man of few words - Stiles was never sure if this was just his nature, or the product of his horrific environment.

With so few words to work with, Stiles learned to read Derek’s body language, hear all the things unspoken in the way Derek said those few words, and he learned quite quickly that silence is often many words at once.

Derek’s tone of voice now is something unfamiliar to Stiles’ ears.

He is so fearful of new territory, so petrified of living on a rigid edge with Derek - so unsure of what Derek truly feels, and truly thinks of him.

Unsure of whether or not he is more frightened by his uncertainty, or of finding his answers.

“I… I said… I asked you… please, don’t leave…”

Derek turns halfway back towards him, his hair is thick, and streaked with moonlight, and his face is stoic, but his eyes are sparkling in a way Stiles has never seen before.

It all feels so unreal, like this is a dream, and Stiles isn’t even part of his body, part of this time. 

Derek has been there his entire life, and now, they're near the precipice of the Death Zone, in the dead of the night. 

It's surreal.

“I… I know you have every right to hate me,” Stiles starts, nervously filling the silent air, “I… growing up, especially, I know, I annoyed you, I bothered you, I made you do everything for me, but I was young, I was ignorant, I didn’t realize my own role in the cycle - I have grown, though, I respect you as I would my own brother, I respect you as my family, my blood…”

No tension is relieved, in fact, it escalates somehow, and Derek isn’t speaking.

Derek only remains bolted to the same spot on the lawn, a few steps, and a single scale from the Death Zone.

The lights from the sniper towers are bright, but not pointed towards them.

Stiles’ family’s mansion has a Death Zone on either side of the property, and beyond those are other mansions, surrounded also by men carrying wolfsbane bullets, vigilant in their watch, and always far too eager to put down a hopeful escapee.

“I realize the state of the world is fucked up, I… I want more than anything to make things right.”

Maybe it’s the ten years more Derek has lived that gives his stature such certainty, maybe it’s Derek’s facade, maybe it’s a show, it's a lie, and it always has been. Maybe Derek was born stoic, and with such surety. Maybe it's genuine. 

Stiles has never known, and he certainly can't decipher it now.

“What if making things right means letting me go,” Derek says more than asks.

Chills run up Stiles’ arms, and back, his toes curl in his socks against the marble patio floor.

He starts shaking his head slightly, and he’s not sure why, his body just does it of its own accord. His shoulders hunch, his hands are moving, but not making even a vague message.

“I… I don’t - I don’t…” Stiles’ hands are starting to shake violently, and Derek seems to notice them for the first time.

They’re covered in Derek’s blood.

Around 1:45am, Stiles woke from a nightmare as he often does - Derek's environment wasn't the only one with horrors, and often their respective horrors overlapped. They share that much, at least.

Derek knows Stiles' near-2:00am-wake-up routine well, because since Stiles started waking from night terrors at around 12 years old, he would come to Derek’s room during them, too frightened to ask his father for help, as he was often the source of the terror.

So, when Stiles woke this particular night, cold sweat clinging to his pallid skin, he came to knock on Derek’s bedroom door, as he had taken to doing in the past several years. And like a dance they knew well together, Stiles would ignore the baldness of Derek’s bedroom, mutter something curious, and uncertain, and Derek would throw open his blanket, lead Stiles to the kitchen, and make him chamomile tea.

Sometimes they would talk at the kitchen table until the wee hours, or until Stiles felt he could fall asleep again.

Sometimes Derek wouldn’t say a single word, and Stiles would eventually accept the silence.

Stiles most enjoyed the nights that Derek took a mug for himself, sat across from him at that sparkling, stone table, and he could soak in Derek’s presence.

Hoping, as he always does, that it would be such a night, he went to Derek’s bedroom door, knocked, and knocked, and when there was no response, he was petrified enough to open the door without permission - only to find it entirely vacant.

Stiles walked down the hall, heart pounding, wondering if maybe Derek has chosen to kill him, if every fable about the Weres’ Moon Madness he heard through childhood was true, but he knows it’s all untrue. He knew it to be untrue. He _knew_.

Still. His heart raced.

Even with the possibility of a painful death lingering at the back of his mind, he searched the halls for Derek. He thought to himself that maybe he half suspected Derek to kill him, because he felt deserving of it.

That only made him move faster.

Every corridor was dark, only lighted by what starlight came through the expansive windows; curtains fluttered in the nighttime wind, and every time one brushed Stiles’ exposed arms, he jumped, and so wished Derek were there with him, to give him that sense of impenetrable safety that only Derek’s presence can give him. 

It was then that he saw the far bathroom door left ajar.

Not horribly unusual, not dark words written on the wall in bodily fluids, but it still made a heavy, hot stone sink low into Stiles’ stomach.

His intuition told him Derek had been there, or maybe still was, and he fought every frightened survival instinct that struck his nerves like lightning each step closer he took. 

When he finally made it to the bathroom door, he curled his fingers around it, and called Derek’s name softly.

There was no response, and there was an eerie emptiness to all of the air that lead Stiles to believe no one was in there, but his anxiety drew horrid, irrational pictures of Derek shifted, crouched, and waiting in the dark.

He shook that thought from his mind, because Derek would never harm him, and though his brain might question it, his heart knew Derek well. His heart knew Derek would always recognize him, and always keep him safe.

He opened the door entirely, and it was too dark to see anything.

He switched on the light, and was horrified at the blood covering all the porcelain, and marble.

There was one of the kitchen aids’ specialty cutting knives in the sink, stained red, and still dripping lazily.

Stiles rushed to the sink, grabbing the lip of it, looking inside, and seeing nothing but the bloody knife.

He crouched down to the floor, his socks wet with the fresh blood on the ground, moved his hands through the blood, looking for what he feared, and already knew would be there.

The chip did not blink a green light as it was supposed to.

It was broken in half, sticky with blood, and Stiles needed to escape, needed to find Derek, to get the stench of blood from his nostrils, catch Derek before it’s too late, too late, _too late, **too late**_ -

He jumped down the stair cases three steps at a time, leaving a slippery trail of blood with every leap, and landing. When he skid to a halt at the glass sliding doors that lead to the backyard patio, he pressed his hands up against the glass, able to see a shape in the darkness, and knowing in his heart that it was Derek.

And that Derek was leaving.

He left transparent, red streaks in the shape of his fingers on the glass, and around the lock he fumbled with for a few seconds before being able to throw the door open, and run out to the edge of the patio.

Derek’s arms have some blood on them still, but he has no visible wounds, as he never has.

Stiles has known for a long time that although Derek's body shows no scars, it has endured more than most can dream up.

“I…” Stiles starts shakily, his heart stutters in a sick way, the preface to a panic attack, and he thinks he sees Derek shift towards him instinctively, and then stop himself.

“I - I can’t,” Stiles answers honestly, tears starting to warm his eyes, “I can’t, I can’t - I can’t let go of you - how could I - I … how could I… go on?”

“You know your father will have me replaced before noon tomorrow,” Derek replies coldly, “There will be another Were to set out your pills in the morning, and fold the laundry you can’t be bothered with. You’ll go on just fine.”

“No!” Stiles insists, “You don’t… you don’t get it…”

Derek’s brows move up as a way of telling Stiles to expound, but Stiles shakes his head, gestures at the wall with his bloody, shaking hand, and says, “you know they’ll shoot you, they’ll shoot to kill - you won’t -”

“Other Weres have made it across the Death Zone, and that means I can too.”

Stiles stands there with his arm out, mouth gaping, and mind blank, and racing all at once.

He holds his head, the slick of blood making his hair feel cold and stiff, his face feel hot, and sick.

He falls onto the patio, sitting, and drawing his knees up while keeping his legs wide.

He holds his forehead, staring down at the marble, and he asks aloud, “is this a night terror? Am I… am I asleep?”

He feels something change in the air, but Derek doesn’t come closer. His voice is kinder, though, full of something like sympathy when he answers, “no. No, Stiles. You're awake. I promise.”

“A life with me… I have been so terrible that to escape me is worth risking the Death Zone?” Stiles asks, looking up to Derek desperately, eyes searching, and brow furrowed tightly, “I'm not being sarcastic, or cruel, I really need to know - I... I need to know how much I need to repent here, Derek. Am I so unbearable, truly? I wanted more than anything to make you comfortable, for my home to be your home too, to keep you safe from the cruelty of my father, and the world, to give you some semblance of normalcy, even though I know it's all fucked up, and… am I just another prison? Am I really so awful? That you would risk the Death Zone to get away from me? Is it my father? Is it both of us?”

He hears Derek put his rucksack on the ground, and looks up to watch Derek move towards him.

He crouches down, his hair mussed in a way Stiles is unused to seeing, and his heart throbs in a pathetic, familiar way. 

“Stiles…”

Stiles’ eyes are still wide, wet, and imploring.

Derek is struggling to look directly into them, and Stiles can tell.

Stiles selfishly hopes he can manipulate Derek through pity to make Derek stay with him. It's a terrible wish. He wishes he weren't as selfish as he is, but this is _Derek_. There is too much he hasn’t said, and he needs more time, he just needs _a little_ _more time_.

“You are not a fate worse than death,” Derek explains gently, “Freedom… _real_ freedom is worth the risk, though.”

Stiles has lived a privileged, safe, and clean life, wanting for nothing, fearing no one, and nothing, but the anger of his father.

He knows he cannot feel what Derek is feeling, that he cannot know Derek’s experience, understand his loss, comprehend his battle for what Stiles never even had to ask for. So, he drops his gaze, lowers his head, and shuts his eyes. His hand runs over his hair, rubbing the back of his skull the way does compulsively when anxiety runs through his body like a stampede. 

“I kissed you once,” Stiles mumbles.

“What?”

He sighs, defeated, and admits, “you were sleeping. You had been out in the garden all day, it was the ninth of August. My father had kept you working under the blazing sun for more than seven hours. He had you scrub the floors of the ground floor after that, and arrange dinner. You hadn’t eaten all day. And you were exhausted. You went to your room, and I followed shortly after.”

He throws his head back, still unable to look Derek in the eyes so he looks at the stars instead.

“I was bringing you a plate, and a jug of water, because I hoped you'd forgive me for that day - but when I knocked a few times, and you didn’t answer, I thought you might be hurt, or something serious had happened, and I opened the door. You weren’t hurt, though. You were just worked to exhaustion, still crumby with dirt on your arms, and face… you weren’t even entirely on your bed. Like, you had collapsed as soon as you got close enough to the bed.”

“I put the plate, and jug on your bedside table, knelt next to you… and I just wanted to feel it once. I just… just once. Because I knew you’d never… I just knew… I… I felt horrible afterward, like I had used you like everyone else, like everyone I’ve ever fucking hated, and you didn’t wake up, so I kept it to myself, this terrible secret, and that was three years ago. And… you deserve to know. Before you leave.”

Derek’s voice is gentle, and curious when he asks, “to know that you kissed me while I slept?”

Stiles’ throat clicks on a swallow, and he shakes his head before throwing it back down, dropping his hands from his head.

“To know that I love you.”

He sighs wetly. 

“I love you. And you deserve every happiness. And if you would prefer the relief of death before staying here, I hope that it’s swift, and painless. And I will watch you until the very end. Until you are dead at the foot of the wall, or long gone into the darkness of the trees on the east border. I'll be your witness. It's the very least I can do.”

Stiles recalls being small then - just seven years old, and Derek being seventeen.

He remembers gripping the back of Derek’s uniform shirt, following him around the house as he did the chores.

He recalls times that Derek allowed him to sit atop his shoulders, or ride his back as he folded laundry, dusted, sponged, scrubbed, cooked, and sorted.

He remembers one particular night that his father had drunkenly said something unforgettably awful, and Derek swept him up, carried him up to bed, and sat on the edge of the bed, not leaving until Stiles had fallen asleep. Tear-stained cheeks, and sniffly nose, buried into his recently fluffed pillow.

He taught Derek how to read in secret, and Derek taught him about constellations, made him a better chess player, would shift whenever Stiles asked to see the glow of his eyes, and the elongation of his canines. Stiles didn’t treat him as an amusement, though, but rather looked at Derek with wonderment, and unquenchable curiosity - even envy, sometimes. 

As far back as Stiles can remember, Derek has been there.

Setting out his pills, yes, and sorting the laundry, yes, and cleaning, and cooking, and gardening, and organizing, and yes, yes, yes, but more, so much more than that - Stiles remembers Derek’s presence.

How laser-focused his eyes are, how he cut his own hair, and did it so well. The curvature of his back, the length of his legs, and the proud strength in his stature. The veins in his hands and arms, the way he used his claws to cut tags off of the backs of Stiles’ shirts, the way his muscles went taut as he worked in the yard under rain, and through snow, how he shoveled the driveway a half mile long. 

How he kept all of Stiles’ secrets, how he protected Stiles when he didn’t necessarily need to, how he paid for that, and how his loyalty always seemed to sit densely in Stiles’ hands more so than his father’s.

Stiles knew that was just one of many reasons his father resented him.

Derek’s hands move to balance between Stiles’ feet in the grass.

He leans into Stiles’ spread legs, and when Stiles instinctively picks his head and eyes up, Derek meets him there, kissing him, and setting his heart on fire. His arms spring out, his hands gripping Derek’s biceps, so frightened, and so lost, and so uninterested in being found. 

They kiss for a long few moments, longer than Stiles expects it to last.

When he thinks Derek is about to pull away, it’s only to find that he’s turning his head to get a better angle, to sweep his tongue over Stiles’, to bite, and pull on his bottom lip.

He touches Derek’s face, Derek’s neck, these intimate places, and in intimate ways that he’s never before been permitted.

He tries to dedicate it to memory, thinks about how he’ll be a greyed out, old man on his deathbed, imagining this, and hoping that Heaven is real, so it will take him back to this moment, and let it go on for all eternity. 

When Derek finally does pull away, he keeps his lips against Stiles’, just barely. Just so that they breathe the same air, that their lips touch just so.

Stiles will be eighteen in four days, and Derek is twenty-eight now, with perfectly trimmed facial hair, a strong jaw, and developed muscles.

Stiles wishes he could press fast forward on his testosterone in order to catch up.

If he ever will.

Derek’s beauty has always been intimidating.

He considers saying that out loud, but then Derek whispers, “you can come with me.”

Stiles’ brows spring up, and he looks directly into Derek’s sea foam eyes. They are as frighteningly beautiful, and entirely unreadable as always. 

“What?”

“If it’s a risk you’re willing to take, I’ll spend my life protecting you.”

Stiles gapes unattractively at Derek for a long few beats before Derek adds, “and loving you.”

Stiles lets out a cross between a laugh, and a gasp, and then he’s running inside, grabbing a bag, stuffing it with his favorite clothes, his pills, food from the pantry, and he puts on his best running shoes before coming back to Derek, and letting the relief wash over him that Derek is still there to come back to. 

“You’re sure?”

“I’d rather be extraordinary with you, Derek, and fight for you, and for what’s right, than stay here. I swear it.”

“And if we die?”

Stiles smirks, and shrugs, “I’ll die with love in my heart, my hands… and a purpose. Better than rotting here.”

Derek nods, and puts his warm, callused palm against Stiles’ neck where his jugular is bouncing anxiously. 

“As soon as my feet hit the ground, jump onto my back. I’m going to shift, and you won’t be able to keep up. It will be easier to carry you to the border.”

Stiles nods, but Derek continues to stare at him.

He waits patiently, never having felt braver, or more certain in his life about anything. And strangely, he's never felt safer.

“And if we die, I think you should at least get to die with the knowledge that I’ve been in love with you since you gave me your wish on your thirteenth birthday.”

Stiles’ face goes slack with surprise, and he recalls the memory, reciting, “…you should have my wish since you never got a cake, or a wish to begin with.”

Derek nods, and replies, “and it came true.”

Stiles starts to smile, “yeah?”

“Yeah,” Derek responds, lowering his hand, and running it down Stiles’ arm until he can take Stiles’ hand in his, “yeah. It came true.”

Stiles’ hands are gripping the top of the stone wall, his leg his hiked up over it when he hears Derek hit the ground below.

He sees the sniper lights quickly turning, jumps over the ledge, and he hears the shots being fired, but all he focuses on is that triskele on Derek’s back, that symbol of freedom, and bravery, and perseverance, and survival, and he knows it will all mean something.

If he lives, if he dies, if even makes it to the ground alive. 

His life means something, because he has loved Derek, and because Derek has loved him, and that’s freedom.

That’s the free fall, that’s the heartbeat that drowns out the sound of hot bullets. 

This is how he makes it right.


End file.
